


Twenty One Pilots

by singing_to_empty_caves



Category: Twenty One Pilots, Twenty One Pilots - Twenty One Pilots (Album)
Genre: Escape, Taxi Cab, album interpretation, city, no seriously I think that was the whole inspiration for the setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 14:14:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17346707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singing_to_empty_caves/pseuds/singing_to_empty_caves
Summary: The city is cold with winter, but it's warm where one girl looks."We're driving toward the morning, son, where all your blood is washed away and all you did will be undone."





	Twenty One Pilots

The window beside me tells stories. Smudges, the mark of children passing through this gateway to the city. Scratches, as men step into the door and their cufflinks are cheap plastic striking the glass. Dirt, left behind by the thick rain, sliding down and pooling beneath rubber and other sorts of processed and artificial things.

This window has seen the city. I pray it does not see me.

I am disappearing.

There is nothing in this place. There is everything. It is too much, for I am but a small and weak being amidst giants who slouch too far down.

I am silent as I take my journey. I have chosen my destination. Nobody will find me where I go.

Oh, window into the soul of the city... tell no one of my escape.

I wonder if the driver knows about his talking windows. I decide, no, he must not. Only the lost ones look for answers in a pane of cold glass; cold, as it presses into my bare shoulder. Gray-brown snow melts above the sewer plates, drags in plastics, piles on the edges of paths to anywhere.

I must be insane, I know that is what they say along the sides of these windows.

I wear the robes of sunlight itself. My feet are free, but also in a prison of filth.

Long, thin strands of chocolate brush my shoulders. Alone, they are not significant; together, they give a false impression of my normalcy.

I will be free of this place soon enough, though it will never be free of me. I have left my mark on the pavement, inside of buildings, and my story is everywhere.

Not quite everywhere.

And I reach out. My trembling fingers drag across the glass.

The window knows me now. It will scream my act of disappearance to the concrete trees, but who will bother to care?

The lullaby of chatter, of angry vehicles and slamming doors that take opportunity with them, fades.

The window's story is changing.

Now, so is mine.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> This is unlike my other album works in that I listened to the album on shuffle instead of in order. Screw Spotify Mobile.  
> Let me know what you think! I know my fics have been short, I'm sure that'll change in the future.


End file.
